Poems (E. L. F.)/Oh, tell me not of other days!
OH, TELL. ME NOT OF OTHER DAYS!
On, tell me not of other days! For, oh! the voiceless pastBut mirrors forth a thousand rays Of brightness overcast.
The sunny days that fleeted by When the heart was young in grief—These are the days that memory Brings back in strong relief.
The brightening hope that darker grew Beneath the frown of care;The joyous tone that only knew An echo in despair;
The beaming smile that seemed to tell Of future days of joy,— Long hushed hath been 'neath the blighting spell Of death's dark and chill alloy.
And the fairy dream of childhood's hour, That o'er my spirit passed,Was all too bright for the chilling power Of life's enduring blast.
Then tell me not of other years, For I would fain forgetThe joys and woes, the smiles and tears, That cling to memory yet.
THE FORGET-ME-NOT.
The spirit of the flowers one dayA-botanising went, folk say,And stumbling o'er a lonely flower,No habitant of lady's bower—A tiny weed of palest blue,Celestial nature's fairest hue;While spiral stem, and leaves all green,Of colour faint as childhood's dream,Support the flower, in beauty grown,Thus blooming in a wild alone;}—And, conning o'er some name to blessThis tiny gem of loveliness,The zephyring breeze the sound had caught,And murmuring breathed—Forget-me-not.